


we wait for morning

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Clubbing, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Rave, Revelations era, Spencer Reid Needs a Hug, Substance Abuse, post-Revelations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: “Yeah I’m…I’m fine. I-I’m fine,” he shoots back as if it’s a reflex, his voice shaky and unconvincing and just barely audible due to his close proximity.He doesn’t look fine at all. Despite how dazed the drugs have left him, he’s about as tense as he could possibly be - his shoulders are drawn up to his ears and his thin arms are tucked defensively around his midsection....(or, spencer meets reader at a rave while he’s high/using)
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader, Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 57





	we wait for morning

**Author's Note:**

> a request from my tumblr, @zhuzhubii

Begrudgingly letting your friends drag you out to a rave on a Friday night isn’t exactly your idea of a good time, but hey - you’re here, and hugging the walls and people watching isn’t _too_ terrible. And anyway, it’ll probably only be another hour or so before they’re all too drunk to notice you leaving - just another hour or so and you’ll be back home in your apartment nursing a mug of hot tea instead of a cocktail, curled up under a pile of blankets with a nice book -

Someone stumbles into you, knocking your drink out of your hand and causing it to spill all over the both of you. “What the hell!” you yelp instinctively, shaking the alcohol off of your hands and grimacing at the feeling of wet fabric clinging to your chest.

He looks up at you with hooded eyes, his unkempt brown hair falling into his face as he sways in front of you. His pupils are tiny and he’s unsteady on his feet. His eyes are glassy and unfocused - even if there wasn’t a distinct lack of alcohol on his breath, it’d be obvious that he’s taken something a little stronger than that. He just leans against the wall next to you as he tries to process the situation, blinking at you as his eyes trail slowly between his shirt and your shirt and your face. “S…sorry,” he slurs eventually, his face flickering between apologetic and confused as he pulls at the collar of his shirt.

You’ve seen people out of their minds on alcohol or drugs or _whatever_ before, but only at parties and never like _this_ \- and yes, a rave isn’t all that far off from a party, but this guy really doesn’t seem like the partying type. That and he doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying being here at all. And maybe he’s just having a bad trip, but…there’s something about him that tells you there’s more to it than that. You can see something like pain and hurt and darkness just behind his eyes despite how unfocused they are, and your irritation starts to melt away as you take in the dark bags under his eyes and the bone-deep weariness emanating off of him. 

“Are you…are you okay?” you ask, grimacing when your words get swallowed up by the painfully loud music. “Are you okay!” you ask again, leaning in and shouting this time, hoping he’ll be able to make out your words through the noise and the fog whatever he took is causing.

“Yeah I’m…I’m fine. I-I’m fine,” he shoots back as if it’s a reflex, his voice shaky and unconvincing and just barely audible due to his close proximity.

He doesn’t look fine at all. Despite how dazed the drugs have left him, he’s about as tense as he could possibly be - his shoulders are drawn up to his ears and his thin arms are tucked defensively around his midsection. He can’t quite focus his eyes but he never takes them off of you, instead tracking your every movement the best he can through the noise and the lights and the sea of people that’s only been increasing in size. To be honest, he looks like he’s caught somewhere between passing out from exhaustion and having a panic attack, like the haze of being high out of his mind is the only thing keeping him from bolting and finding a place to curl up and hide.

Just then, the DJ yells something into the microphone and starts hyping up the crowd - you thought it was impossible, but it suddenly becomes even louder than before as he turns the music up and people start yelling and cheering and -

The man gasps beside you, his spindly hands coming up to claw at his ears as he curls in on himself and starts letting out this horrible, pained whine - you don’t know if it’s the drugs causing the issue or if he’s got some kind of underlying sensory issue, but either way he’s clearly _very_ distressed and only getting more so by the second. He starts pulling at his still-wet shirt as you try to calm him down, frantically searching through the crowd for his friends, for _anyone_ who seems to know this guy at all (and internally cursing them for thinking it was a good idea to bring him here in the first place).

No one comes and the guy doesn’t calm down. You’re not sure exactly what comes over you, but the next thing you know you’re ushering this stranger through the crowd, hugging the wall and protecting him from stray drinks and wild limbs as best you can as you guide him toward the exit. And then you’re outside, practically dragging him away from the chaos and into a back alley that’s filthy, but relatively quiet at the very least - he sinks to the floor and starts pulling at his fingers, rocking back and forth in a constant motion and clenching his eyes shut.

You brush a hand across his arm to try and comfort him, but he only yelps and snatches it away, tucking it into his belly and bringing his knees up to lock it in - you take the hint and back off, but after that you’re really not sure what to do. You _do_ know that you can’t in conscience just leave him here alone to have his…his _whatever this is_ , so you crouch down beside him and keep watch, glaring at any stray rave-goers who wander too close.

He comes out of it eventually, whimpering and wrapping his arms around his knees, ducking his head down and wearing his mop of unkempt hair like a shield. You give him a few minutes to breathe before inching closer and asking, “Are you okay?” for the third time, keeping your voice low and soft in the calm of the alley.

It takes him a moment of just sitting there with his face buried in his knees before he responds, shaking his head so slightly you almost miss it. You nod back even though he can’t see it, a sad smile gracing your lips at his admission. “Did you, um…,” you start before trailing off, not really knowing what you’re trying to say. 

“Were you with anyone tonight?” you settle on, “A…a friend, maybe?”

He shakes his head again, sniffing and fiddling with his hands as he does it. He makes himself impossibly smaller, scrunching his shoulders together and hunching over even more - it makes you wonder why he’s alone tonight, if he has anyone who could’ve come with him.

“Okay,” you mumble, ducking your head down to try and encourage him to uncurl himself, “Is there, um…is there anyone I can call for you?”

“No,” he says, his voice surprisingly sharp and bitter through the persistent slur, “’m…’m alone. ’m a- _always_ ‘lone…’lways alone…”

You’re not really sure what to say to that, not really sure what to do now - you don’t even know his name and sitting in a back alley outside a reave _really_ isn’t how you planned on spending your Friday night, but how are you supposed to just… _leave_ after he’s told you that? He’s huddled on the pavement in an alleyway high out of his mind and he’s just confessed to feeling (or maybe _being_ ) completely alone and the only one who’s even listening to him is a complete stranger. 

And that’s how you end up hauling a man you’ve known for less than an hour to his feet, calling a taxi as you guide him out to the street as he stumbles beside you, mumbling, “Wh’re we goin’?” but not trying to fight you at all.

“I’m taking you home,” you reply, “I-I mean, as long as that’s okay with you? It’s just…you didn’t want me to call anyone, and I don’t want to leave you alone right now…”

“Y’re nice,” he slurs with the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen from him as of yet, “‘m tired.”

And then he drops his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheeks as he leans his weight against you, his form light in its gangliness. “I’m…’m tired,” he repeats with a crack in his voice and it feels like he’s saying something different this time, like he’s not just talking about physical exhaustion.

You help him into the cab when it comes and give the driver your address, ignoring the way he snorts and mumbles, “Fuckin’ junkie…,” as he pulls away from the curb. The man is too out of it to hear him anyway - he’s half asleep on your lap and you run your fingers through his hair as the cab bumps along. He hums contentedly and pushes his head into your hands as you untangle the thin strands of hair, and you smile just a little - you’re glad he’s been granted this short moment of solace, at least. That you can provide this stranger some comfort through whatever he’s going through right now.

You pay the driver when he pulls up in front of your apartment building and then lead Spencer inside, letting him lean against you as you two inch up the stairs and while you fish your keys out of your pocket. He practically collapses onto the couch once he gets close enough and kicks his shoes off almost immediately - you notice that his patterned socks don’t match and wonder if it’s on purpose. 

He doesn’t flinch away when you sit down beside him, but he pulls his legs up and curls into a ball just like he did back in the alleyway. When you press a glass of water into his hands he takes it on instinct, gazing down into the clear liquid as if it has some kind of secret to tell. “My name’s (y/n)” you say after he finally takes a sip, “What’s yours?”

He shakes his head in response and looks over at you with eyes that are much clearer than they were before. He doesn’t answer your question, just asks his own in return, “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

“W…what?” you almost laugh at the idea before sensing how serious he is and holding back, “No! No, I’m not gonna kill you. Why…why would you think that?”

“It’s just that I…,” he starts before sucking in a sharp breath and stopping himself. He starts looking around your apartment as if he’s just realizing where he is, that he’s sitting on some stranger’s couch in the middle of the night. “Nevermind,” he continues, pushing himself up off of the couch and starting toward the door, “It’s not important. Anyway, I…I should go. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea, I don’t even _know_ you -”

“Wait!” you jump to your feet and reach for him, catching his sleeve before he can get too far. He turns back around to face you and you see it - yes you’re a stranger, but he doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to face another night alone as his demons beat him down over and over, as he loses the fight for the umpteenth time. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Hell, I’m the one who invited you. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

He just stands there for a moment, glassy eyes fixed on the wallpaper as tears bud in the corners. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says, rubbing a hand against the crook of his arm and letting his eyes fall to the floor, swallowing nervously as if he expects you to try and force him to.

“You don’t have to,” you reply in a near-whisper, “Not if you don’t want to. We can, I don’t know…we can crash on the couch and put on a movie or something. Or not, it’s up to you…?”

He nods, biting at his bottom lip as his eyes flicker between yours and the floor. “That, um…that sounds good. Yeah, that…that would be nice I think.”

And that’s how you end up sitting next to him on the couch for the second time, sipping water and pretending to be watching the television, not him. He starts fidgeting a couple hours in and it hurts to watch even though you don’t know him, not really - you’ve seen how addiction can ruin people and, despite all the evidence saying otherwise, you were really hoping it wasn’t _that_. But then he asks where your bathroom is with trembling hands and averted eyes - you tell him because no matter how much you wish things were different, you know he’s not gonna kick it in one night even _if_ he’s ready to.

He doesn’t get up right away, just sits there and picks at the seams of the couch for a minute. “I’m sorry. I…I _have_ to,” he mutters, then heaves himself to his feet with shame in his eyes and slinks off, tucking a desperate hand into his right pocket - you hear the sound of glass against glass and it makes you want to cry because you _know_ what he’s about to use your bathroom to do.

He stumbles back after a while and he’s just like he was a few hours ago, dazed and floaty with the darkness hidden just beneath the surface for now. “‘M s’rry,” he repeats without the clarity it took him hours to regain, “‘M so s’rry, (y/n)…”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, even though this is the furthest thing from ‘okay’ that you can think of right now. “It’s okay,” you whisper, because what else are you supposed to do? 

…

When you wake up in the morning your neck is stiff from sleeping on the couch. When you wake up in the morning, he’s gone. You almost think you’ve imagined the whole thing, but then you wipe the sleep from your eyes and stumble into the kitchen - there’s a yellow post-it note stuck to the fridge with a short message scrawled in what can only be the man’s handwriting.

_Thanks for last night. I really appreciate it._

_\- Spencer_

You gently pull it free and thumb over the name - _Spencer,_ you think, _it suits him_. And then you stick it back on the fridge and go about your Saturday, resigning yourself to never seeing him again.


End file.
